


A Personal Case

by LadyNorin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Procedures, Trauma, What-If
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:14:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27592564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyNorin/pseuds/LadyNorin
Summary: John Watson had put as much distance as possible between himself and 221b Baker Street. The decision that had prompted him to pack up was very simple: Sherlock Holmes.After all that had happened, he couldn't bear to stay there any longer. In that house, with that constant, everlasting presence. He felt as if he'd been stabbed in the back. Like a betrayal.He couldn't even look him in the face after Mary's death. And yes, he had even hated him, especially after the words he said in a moment of anger and suffering, can never repare the situation.When things look like could get worse, and a hard-to-heal wrong doesn't give any hope, what else could convince John to return to Sherlock.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 23
Kudos: 28





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I made an improvement to this first chapter, thanks to my beta who helped me improve it. So it is now revised and corrected.
> 
> For those who are about to start it, thank you for your time! I hope you can leave a comment! That would be awesome!
> 
> I'll leave my facebook link here if anyone is interested in any spoilers or news  
> https://www.facebook.com/ladynorin/
> 
> I also have an instagram  
> https://www.instagram.com/lady_norin/
> 
> To get an idea of the story, it's set after 4x01, after Mary's death. John didn't take her murder very well and took it out on Sherlock, after he left the flat he never saw him or had contact again. How are they going to get back together? You have to read it to find out!
> 
> Updates will be once a month, it might even happen twice.

John Watson had put as much distance as possible between himself and 221b Baker Street. The decision that had prompted him to pack up was very simple: Sherlock Holmes.

After all that had happened, he couldn't bear to stay there any longer. In that house, with that constant, everlasting presence. He felt as if he'd been stabbed in the back. Like a betrayal.

He couldn't even look him in the face after Mary's death. And yes, he had even hated.

The irrational part of himself was still in that state, but every now and then the rational part peeped out and tried to give him suggestions. Like when it had suggested to him, during his late-night musings, that maybe it hadn't all been Sherlock's fault. That no one had forced Mary to get involved, and he had already risked his neck for her. She did it because she loved Sherlock too much to let him die. Yes, she loved him too much... That was the problem with people who loved Sherlock too much, who then ended up getting caught up in his bullshit and paying the price.

Of course he wasn't, he was used to it by now, in fact he almost felt a sort of insane pleasure in putting himself in mortal danger. But he knew what he was doing. He made decisions for himself. Before.

Later he had become a husband, and even a father. Now he had to choose what was best for his family, and Sherlock Holmes was not among those options.

He plunged the pink plastic spoon into Rosie's gritty, uninviting mush, and made airplane noises while feeding it to her.

"Here comes the evening flight to London Gatwick. Let's ask the control tower for permission to land," he put the spoonful of mush into the little girl's mouth, which she opened with squeals of happiness while clapping her tiny hands.

At least she was hungry.

It had been a difficult time for everyone, and Rosie had also felt the effects. Being only a few months old didn't stop her from missing her mother.

John tried hard to distract her, but for at least a couple of months the little girl had been stressed and nervous, crying practically all the time. He could only calm her down after hours of rocking her in his arms, and then she would fall asleep on his chest, exhausted. Obviously he didn't even think about moving her, so he stayed on the sofa or on the bed until she woke up, which was always after exactly four hours, and then he started all over again. The night wasn't any better. Finally, the morning would come and they would both collapse eventually.

Lately, however, she had regained her appetite, slept through the night and the crying had dropped dramatically. A sign that things were getting better. They were going to get better. They had to get better, for each other. Of course it didn't mean forgetting Mary, he would always talk to her about her mother, he was sure of that. But now they had to make another life for themselves, away from those who endangered them.

So no he didn't regret leaving as far away from him as possible at all, and no, he wouldn't admit even under torture that he actually missed her. Terribly.

He couldn't get back on his feet after what she'd told him. And Sherlock must have got the message because he hadn't been seen or heard from again.

As John was engaging in self-pity, the cell phone resting on the table began to vibrate wildly, so much so that he spun around.

He craned his neck and saw the name of the caller "Lestrade".

So perhaps he had not completely given up on his old life. Every now and then he still worked for the detective at Scotland Yard.

He left the spoon in Rosie's matching saucer and picked up the phone.

"Yes Lestrade?" he replied almost in an excited tone. The idea of leaving the house to help with a murder case basically made him happy. Okay it was a horrible thing to think about, however he would give anything to use his brain for a moment in anything other than trying to get a baby's crying to stop.

"You need to come to the car park in Marble Arch, the one behind the tube station."

"Ah yes I see which one."

"I'll be waiting. Hurry up." he didn't even have time to ask Greg who the dead guy was because he'd already ended the conversation. He sighed and stood up letting the chair legs scrape across the old linoleum floor. Then he leaned over and planted a kiss on Rosie's little head. He loved the smell of her. He could smell her all the time when she fell asleep on his chest.

"Alright little one let's call the sitter."

Rosie squeaked excitedly at those words. Sometimes John was convinced she understood him even though she was only a few months old. Absurd.

It took him a while to leave the house, and another half hour to cross the part of the city that separated him from the crime scene.

The car park was located next to the underground exit, which had fortunately prevented it from being closed by the police.

Policemen in neon yellow vests stopped his taxi and he got out, having left a twenty-pound note with the driver, who was happy to keep the change. He showed his card, and the good officers let him through without a word. It was a dreary autumn morning, a warm drizzle covered the city. The sky was white, covered with clouds. As always.

He passed under the yellow tape that had been put up to close off the driveway beside the car park. There were other officers checking footprints; and just beyond, behind a cover, was Greg Lestrade.

He called his attention with a “Hey Greg" and raised a waving hand. The detective looked up from his notebook and signalled for him to come closer.

John wasted no time.

"So what have we got?" he asked curiously. The victim's body lay between a concrete column on an empty car spot and a SUV in the next spot. Now that he had approached Greg, he could see it. What was definitely supposed to be a grown man was lying on the ground, in a supine position. It was a real mess.

"Well we don't know much yet, we need an autopsy to know. But I think they beat him to death." Greg's tone was almost resigned, as if the violence he had to deal with every day wasn't enough to make him realise that the world was an evil place.

John bent over the unfortunate victim.

There was a large patch of almost congealed blood underneath, it must have been there for a while.

He was turned on his stomach so he couldn't see his face.

His hair was smeared with blood and stuck together, at least one head wound was visible. What must have been a shirt of some shade of blue was torn in several places, underneath there were other marks, it was all a mess of bruises, swelling, and bleeding wounds.

Lestrade handed him a pair of latex gloves. He slipped them on and placed a hand under his body, turning him over.

If the rest was a mess, his face was virtually unrecognisable.

"Any ID?" Greg shook his head.

"Nothing at all."

"A robbery gone wrong?" he ventured.

"No, it looks personal. Like the animal that did this to this poor guy was upset about something and wanted to teach him a lesson."

"I don't know, then why take away his papers?

Remember the Stubbylee Park case?"

“The two boys slaughtered in the park by the pack? No they don't seem to be the culprits. Look at the way he's dressed, he's got shoes that cost at least two hundred quid."

"What do you mean, maybe that's why it bothered someone."

"I'm telling you it's personal."

He grimaced but continued to examine the victim.

The right side of his face was swollen, his eye was black and the size of a golf ball, and on the side of his lip there was a large split that left his teeth red with blood. The right side was a little better. The eyebrow had a deep cut and there were abrasions on the forehead, probably due to the impact with the asphalt. The cheekbone was an insanely yellow and purple in colour.

He pulled down the collar of his shirt with two fingers, horrified. Multiple stripes of different shades of dark purple stood out on his neck.

"I think they tried to strangle him."

"Are you kidding?" even Lestrade's tone was full of disgust at such viciousness. He bent down so he could get a better look.

"See?" John touched those marks with his fingertips.

"How old do you think he is?" asked Lestrade.

"Hard to say with his face in this condition, but I'd say... mid-thirties. Give or take a year."

"What kind of filthy animal are we dealing with?"

"No idea, but we'll have to hurry up and catch whoever did this.”

"Have you heard from him again?" the detective's sudden change of subject had left him surprised, it took him a few seconds to realise what he was talking about.

"No." he cut it short, hoping it would end there.

He got down on his knees, next to the victim. He began to move the locks of hair completely covered in blood that had stuck to his forehead.

With infinite slowness, he lifted the only eyelid that was still free enough. His eyes were bloodshot, and a black pupil was staring back at him.

"Fuck!" he jumped to his feet so fast that Lestrade had dropped everything in his hand and was about to pull out his gun.

"What's going on???"

"Who the fuck checked it???"

Greg blinked confused.

"What do you mean?"

"Who checked to make sure he was actually dead!"

"What? What do you mean actually dead?. He had no pulse!"

"He's still alive!"

Lestrade's jaw seemed to drop and he fell to the ground in amazement.

"What the fuck do you mean he's still alive! Shit!"

He pulled his mobile out of his pocket and dialled the emergency number, immediately calling for an ambulance.

Meanwhile John had gone back to attending to the victim.


	2. Chapter 2

He was trying to clear the mans airway, after having undone the first few buttons of his shirt. He didn’t care if some popped off.

“Damn it! There’s so much blood. His lung must have been punctured."

He put his ear close to the victims heart. He gasped.

John administered chest compressions until the poor fellow choked out a gush of blood. Finally, he began to take a few rattled breaths, his chest rising and falling.

John ran a hand over his face, Lestrade ran his through his hair.

At that moment the paramedics arrived. The men hadn't even noticed the ambulance sirens.

Paramedics loaded the man onto a stretcher and John gave them the full story of what had happened and what he had been doing to treat him, explaining that he was a military doctor.

The paramedics left, getting into the ambulance.

John turned to Greg.

"I cannot believe it. So we no longer have a dead man."

“It doesn't necessarily means he will survive. He was in bad shape. "

Now there was a new stain of fresh blood along with the old one.

"Maybe this is a case were I should call him."

John cursed mentally. He knew Greg was right. They needed him, this case was too brutal to leave the culprit on the loose. Every minute that passed someone innocent was in danger of dying such a horrible death.

He sighed. He hadn't heard or seen Sherlock Holmes for a year.

"I agree." he took the phone and unlocked it. He hadn't deleted his number from the phone book, but he had blocked it, so now he unblocked the contact, and pressed the call key.

He had turned his back to Lestrade so he couldn't see his face and read his expressions.

The idea of hearing Sherlock's voice sent a shiver down his spine.

It started ringing on the other end. One ring. Two rings. Three rings.

Strange, usually at the third he always answered if he was available. He let it fail and put it down. Maybe he had seen his number so he didn't answer him… he turned to Greg.

"He doesn't answer me."

"Are you two in that bad shape?"

He ignored the dig.

"Okay, I'll call him. But if you get divorced, I spend the weekends with you. At least on weekends I want to have fun and he is not capable. "

John gave him a dirty look to which the detective replied with a smirk. He knew he was hitting in the right places. Bastard.

It was Greg's turn to call Sherlock.

John didn't even realize he was staring at him, but he was too focused on trying to hear the voice he was going to answer from the other head. The call came through. Then finally there's the voice. It just wasn't what John expected.

"Hello? Sherlock?“ asked Greg, strange.

The other voice answered.

"Ward? I'm sorry, Ward, why are you answering Sherlock's phone? Is he there with you? "

"But who is Sherlock Holmes?" he heard from the other side.

"No Ward the Queen! "

A strange feeling slipped down his stomach.

"No, man, I found it in the dumpster outside."

John Watson did not particularly like running now that he was "retired" from the army, but at those words he had literally flown.

Lestrade was screaming his name but hadn't even noticed he had thrown himself out of the side avenue of the parking lot, where the cops were doing the surveys and now staring at him as if they had just seen a three-headed dragon.

He didn't give a damn.

He tried desperately.

There had to be a logical explanation. The good old logic.

Someone was staring at him. Towards the bottom of the avenue were some large dumpsters thrown against the wall. He ran towards them, running over towards some policemen.

A boy in his thirties in his uniform and classic British police helmet was staring at him, holding, carried to his ear, he had a phone. It was Sherlock's. He knew the phone very well, he bought it for him since what he had before had practically destroyed itself. He swallowed and the knot he had in his throat tightened.

He tore the phone out of the poor officer's hand, and trembling, carried it to his ear.

"Greg?"

"John is that you? What the hell is going on?"

He really wanted to know.

He threw the damn thing away and took the poor boy, who was only doing his job, by his neon yellow jacket.

"Where did you find this!" he screamed in despair. The rain seemed to be heavier than before. The officer pointed to the dumpster.

He jumped on one of the ledges and climbed using all his might. The lid was still lifted, so he only had to lean inside. He peeked into every corner, until he found what looked like dark cloth rolled up.

"Hold me!" he yelled with all the air from his lungs and without waiting for an answer, he slipped half his body over the edge of the dumpster. He retrieved what interested him and dropped backwards and landed on the tarmac.

In his hands he had heavy dark wool cloth. He opened it. It was a long coat.

He swallowed it, and it was so painful that tears gathered in the corners of his eyes. No, it couldn't have been.

"Sir?" asked the agent confusedly beside him.

There were red seams...

"We-ha... I think maybe we know who the victim is."

He was getting soaked because of the rain but he couldn't hear anything, just the frost that had taken hold of him.

No, he categorically refused to believe it. He'd played this game once before. He wouldn't have fallen for it yet.

He began to feel anger. He couldn't have fallen so low... And Greg to give him rope... But the alternative was much worse.

He dropped everything, much to the policeman’s protest.

He wasn't thinking about anything.

He ran in the direction of the flashing lights. The ambulance was still there.

Racing. He opened the front doors and went up. More eyes.

"What are you still doing here!"

Rescuers looked at him worried.

"We have to intubate him and he has a collapsed lung, we drained him before he choked on his own blood."

Sherlock opened the only eye he had left. Well wide open so to speak, there was only a slit with black underneath, staring at him from under his long lashes.

The doctor also put the other hand on his and squeezed it.

"It's going to be all right," he repeated almost more to himself.

They had to pull him off almost by force and get him down.

As soon as the paramedics closed the doors, the siren turned on and left at full speed.

John went back to the alley, retrieved his coat and phone, which Agent Ward had made sure to pack carefully, and returned to Lestrade.

The rain and moisture had soaked in his bones. He hated the rain.

"John?"

Greg was still standing, exactly where he had left it before, and he was confused.

He handed him the two packages. Greg opened the bigger one and took out his coat.

John couldn't even talk.

The detective had changed his gloves, then turned the garment in his hands, inspecting it.

Then he grabbed it by the collar and turned it outwards, in the center there was a cloth label, a black silk rectangle, embroidered with a red thread writing, that name flashed like a neon sign.

"Fuck... What's going on with John? John look at me."

Greg grabbed his friend by the shoulder and shook him hard, forcing him to look at him.

"What the fuck is Sherlock's coat doing here?"

John stared him straight in the eye. Lestrade wasn't a stupid man. He understood right away.

"Come."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long! Above all, I apologise for not having published in December. With the holidays in the middle, I didn't get organised in time and so I didn't make it, but I didn't forget this story! In fact, the writing is going very well, I'm on chapter 14!  
> Many thanks to the people who left me a comment and were kind enough to offer their help! I hope it was worth it and sorry for the wait!
> 
> I have made some changes and corrections to chapter one, it should now be fine and understandable!
> 
> I leave my Facebook and my Instagram 
> 
> https://www.facebook.com/ladynorin/
> 
> https://www.instagram.com/lady_norin/
> 
> Thanks to my beta Jhnlick!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read the note at the end of the chapter.

He dragged him away, left the evidence with one of his agents and then, with John's arm still clutched in his hand, led him to the service car. An old dark blue sedan.

He pushed his friend into the passenger seat and climbed into the driver's seat. Lestrade rolled down the window to turn off the flashing light on the roof of the car and left the curb at full speed.

John Watson still hadn't said a word.

"So... where were you between late last night and early this morning?"

It took John a while to make sense and understand the meaning behind those words. No, actually, he didn't understand them at all.

"What?" he asked with a face that certainly must have looked stupid on the outside.

"Wait... are you accusing me of something??? Do you think I'm the one who did this to him???”

Anger swept through him, quick and blinding. How could he even think of such an eventuality!

"Hey, hey, calm down. You know I have to ask these kinds of questions. Anyway, no I don't think it was you. Obviously."

This explanation was not enough to calm John's anger and indignation.

"Do you realise what's going on? And you waste your time making assumptions like that about me! Do I look like an animal to you! I left so I wouldn't have to get angry with him again!" by now he was shouting more than talking.

"John I said enough. Take a breath."

"No I won't take a breath! I don't want to breathe or relax or stop! I've already lost my wife. I don't want to lose Sherlock too! Again! If you're joking at this you're an asshole because I'm not having any fun at all! I've been through this before and I'm not going through it again and if you think I could have even thought about hurting him then shoot me because I'd rather die than have to put up with any more questions like that!" It had been the longest speech he'd given in months, and he felt like he'd run a marathon. He was out of breath and his hands were shaking.

He filled his lungs with air, then released it. He repeated this a couple of times.

"Better?"

He glared in the direction of the driver.

"I know things are not great between you and him, but sooner or later someone would have come to you for an explanation. Anyway, you can't be the culprit. Your hands are too clean. No scrapes on your knuckles, no scratches to the hand or the arms. These are things that for people like you and me would have immediately jumped out."

John felt anger turn in his stomach but he swallowed the bile and leaned his back against the seat.

"But the question remains. - resumed Greg, who wouldn't let go of the speech.

"Who did it? The assumptions we've made aren't entirely wrong. I'd say something personal. And you know, Sherlock is very quick to attract people's hatred and annoyance. It wouldn't be the first time he stepped on the wrong people's toes."

"You're blaming him? Now he brought it on himself?" interrupted John. Increasingly annoyed.

"Well you blamed him. For your wife, I mean."

That struck him hard.

"So if you did it, imagine someone else...."

"We need to look for the people he's been chasing for the last few months. - He concluded.

"Do you have any idea?" the ex-military doctor shook his head.

"I haven't heard from him in a year," he felt bloody guilty.

Greg didn't add anything else, and the conversation ended there.

The journey seemed to take hours, instead of a few minutes. They parked in one of the hospital's reserved parking spots. Being a detective inspector at Scotland Yard had its advantages, like always finding a parking space.

The hospital in question was called St Mary's. John almost had to laugh. If it was meant to be some sign of destiny, he didn't find it funny.

They entered through the main entrance and followed the signs. In the waiting room there were a few people already, although it was still quite early in the morning. Most of them were elderly.

Greg approached the front desk.

He spoke to one of the secretaries sitting in front of a computer, who immediately let him through.

The corridors were long and there were doors spaced on both sides. There were no windows and the ceiling lights were dim. There was a strong smell of disinfectant products.

They walked to the end of the corridor and stopped in front of sliding doors, the opaque glass was inscribed with the words ‘ _surgery rooms_ ’.

They waited. To their right and left were more corridors.

A man in a white coat came through the corridor on the right, he was in his sixties, with short grey hair, broad shoulders, stubby-fingered hands. A wedding ring on his left ring finger. John labelled him an ordinary man. He wore beige ribbed trousers and dark orthopaedic loafers. He must have been married for several years, given how worn his wedding ring was, and surely he had all his children already grown up, perhaps working around the world. He looked like one of those old-fashioned doctors, who had been in the profession for at least 30 years. Clean. Customary.

He winced when someone tapped him gently on the shoulder. It was Greg signalling for him to follow. He went after him, and with them the doctor.

If the smell of disinfectants outside is strong, it was even stronger inside, but he was used to that.

The doctor approached him.

"I'm Dr. Lewis," he extended his hand, and John shook it.

"I'm John Watson. That is, Dr. John Watson. And detective..." he didn't know why he'd had to add that last bit of clarification.

"Yes Detective Lestrade explained to me that you were an army doctor and even after that you continued to work as a general practitioner. You know one of my sons works in war posts, Afghanistan, Pakistan etc..."

"Ah well, good for him..." he felt so dazed that he couldn't even formulate coherent thoughts. Dr Lewis seemed to notice because he looked at Lestrade who merely shrugged his shoulders.

Before anyone could add anything else, there were sounds of people yelling loudly outside the surgery area.

The voices sounded agitated, from the tone, they were arguing. Lestrade made to go and check, but at that very moment the sliding doors at the end of the corridor swung open and Mycroft Holmes steps in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has come this far and to those who have decided to start this story. I hope to continue entertaining you in the best possible way! I know that in these difficult times, where hundreds of thousands of people are stuck at home, a little distraction can be useful. I must say that concentrating on writing is helping me a lot. Even a simple kudos or comments left behind is important <3  
> Much love


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi everyone! sorry for the wait! in the future i hope to be able to post at least twice a month! i know it can be boring to have to wait so long, i'll try to organize myself somehow.   
> I also have some ideas floating around in my head about possible future spin off chapters for when this main story is over! so work goes on! 
> 
> THANKS TO  
> thanks to all the people who have followed me so far, you're special! and thanks also to the people who are helping me, really if you're reading, thank you with all my heart for your patience and support!   
> thank you for leaving a comment! <3
> 
> Much love

"Who the heck called him?" Greg looked at John who returned his confused expression. He shrugged.

Mycroft Holmes approached as if he were marching in a military parade. It meant no good, you could tell from his infuriated expression.

He was dressed to the nines, a smart tailored suit, shiny new shoes, a dark blue trench-coat over his jacket and an embroidered fine wool scarf.

"You two!"

John noticed that there was a woman behind Mycroft, she must have been in her late forties, she was thin, not that tall and wore her dark brown hair perfectly combed back in a tight bun. She was wearing a blazer with a knee-length skirt, everything in strict dark colours. With a worried frown, the woman adjusted the thick glasses that were slipping off her pointed nose. She looked nervous. In fact, John didn't envy her at all. Working for Mycroft must be one of the worst jobs in the world.

Greg had come over to talk to the oldest of the Holmes brothers.

John didn't want to know so he crept along the wall out of earshot.

Mycroft's face went from angry towards ready to incinerate anyone who came within his reach. If he had been almost normal colour before, now he was purple and the vein in his jugular was throbbing, almost as if it would explode.

"You two! It's your fault!"

"Listen Myc - Greg was trying to appease him and reason with him, but Mycroft wouldn't hear any of it.

"Don't think I won’t hold you responsible!" he snarled through his teeth, then turned his gaze to John, who flattened himself against the wall, wishing he would disappear.

"You." he hissed, pointing a finger at him.

"You did this!" John tried to open his mouth to retort something, but Mycroft's murderous stare made him desist and he closed it again.

"All of this is because of you! You left, after insulting him and blaming him for the death of your criminal wife!" John felt hatred towards Mycroft for those words but the furious man had intimated him so much that he kept quiet.

"You owe everything to my brother, and my family! If you hadn't met him, your life would still be miserable, and you wouldn't even have that beautiful little daughter you care about so much." he saw him advance menacingly, like a big, ferocious lion, that had aimed for the throat of a defenceless fawn. 

"If my brother dies... -it was John who was wishing to die at that moment. - I will find you guilty! And I swear, I will spend every moment I have left to live, making your existence a living hell. I'll take away everything you love, you'll have nothing, not even a lousy job as a garbage man. You'll end up hanging out with Sherlock's homeless, misfit friends, and I promise you, I'll make sure no one even gives you one pound."

John swallowed and swallowed large stone. 

"Mycroft, I think you're going a bit too far..." Mycroft's anger and threatening finger moved to point at Lestrade.

"I can end your career in less than a second, I just need a snap and poof, goodbye pension, goodbye badge. Pray, pray the worst won’t happen." Greg straightened his back and assumed that uncompromising expression he got when one of his people did something stupid or some suspect tried to screw him over.

"Don't think you can threaten us like that Mycroft Holmes! We don't work for you, we're not some bloody flunky of yours that you can treat like trash! We're worried about Sherlock too, what do you think! And the only reason he's still alive is because John was there!" John appreciated Greg's attempt to save him from Mycroft's wrath, but at that moment it wasn't a good idea to pour gasoline into the fire.

In fact, Mycroft had an expression worthy of one of the worst killers on the market.

"Don't you dare contradict me! You know very well that I can end your miserable careers! Even that of the luminary here! - pointed at poor Dr Lewis who looked shocked. 

Heads will roll. That I can guarantee." 

“Excuse me Mr. Holmes," Dr. Lewis interrupted, in a low, intimidated tone. 

"I understand how upset you are, believe me, I've been doing this job for forty years. We are doing everything we can for your brother. But this doesn't help us, a climate of terror and rancour can agitate other patients - “ the poor doctor had no chance to finish his speech because Mycroft had grabbed him by the lapels of his lab coat. 

"I can buy this dump that you call a hospital, and have it demolished if I want to. I'll call one of my doctors who certainly isn't incompetent and have my brother transferred to a private clinic where he will get superior care."

"I'm sorry Mr. Holmes but we are competent and we are already giving him the best care. Your brother cannot be moved in any way or he may not survive. When the surgery is over he will be in an induced coma for a few days. This is necessary to allow the haematomas, especially those in the head, to heal, and because otherwise he would not be able to stand the pain. Is that clear?" Dr. Lewis pulled out of Mycroft's grasp and stiffly adjusted his gown.

Mycroft, for his part, gave everyone present a murderous look and turned on his heel, leaving the hospital exactly as he had entered it.

"I'm sorry, he's not usually so aggressive." Greg tried to apologise, embarrassed for poor Dr. Lewis.

"It doesn't matter, I'm used to relatives reacting badly in situations like this."

"Yes however the relatives of your patients usually can't buy your place of job and demolish it after they fire you on the spot." Lestrade attempted a laugh, but Dr Lewis didn't look amused.

"I have to get back to the operating theatre, I suggest you go home, I'll call you when there's any news." and with an impassive face he disappeared down the corridor he had come from.

John sighed. 

"Come on let's go, I'll drive you home, we don't have anything to do here." Lestrade had put a hand on his shoulder.

"But there's the investigation -“ John complained.

"I'll take care of it. And anyway we're still collecting all the evidence and clues, I've sent my officers out to investigate around, when I have enough clues I'll put the pieces together and call you."

All in all it didn't sound like such a bad plan. John nodded.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

A whole week had passed and John thought he was going crazy. He hadn't received any calls from the hospital or Greg. He lay awake at night. Sifting through everything he could remember about the crime scene, and Sherlock... Yeah, Sherlock. 

Memories of their last encounter were creating his personal hell. In fact, he was sure that was what hell looked like. He was being punished for the horrible way he had treated his best friend. But if it really was his punishment, why was Sherlock the one who fared worse? 

The torment and guilt were consuming him. 

He had left Rosie with the babysitter because if he was around her she would feel all his nervousness and he didn't want to stress her out any more than she already was.

He picked up the phone and called Lestrade; it took him a while to answer.

"Lestrade." replied the almost annoyed-sounding voice on the other end.

"Hey Greg, it's John. Listen... have you heard anything?"

Lestrade sighed. "No John I haven't got anything, I told you I'd call you otherwise, didn't I?" 

"Yeah sorry." there he was, feeling like a complete fool and apprehensive too.

"No, no that's alright, I'm worried too and I'm not getting anything out of it here." 

John was surprised at those words. "Why? I thought you were keeping everyone on the case."

"Yes I am, but there aren't many clues. That damn car park doesn't have half a camera in it. I mean, come on it's the twenty first century, the age of big brother. It's crazy. What about witnesses? No one saw or heard anything, and everyone was apparently asleep at the time. The nearest pub was already closed. So we've got nothing at all." he concluded the long explanation with not too much concealed frustration.

"I'm telling you if I don't find something soon Mycroft will hang us."

John grimaced upon hearing that name.

"I don't give a damn about Mycroft Holmes. We have Sherlock to think about. Look, there's no point in me hanging around at home, I'm coming to help you." He decided it was best to think about something else for a while, even if the topic didn't deviate from the original one.

"No need, John. I've already told you. I don't have anything to investigate at the moment. I understand your eagerness but I wouldn't know what to do with you. Look, I'll call you back tomorrow, OK? We should hear something from the hospital."

"Alright." John felt frustrated and wanted to cry in anger, but he couldn't help it.

"See you tomorrow." Greg ended the call and the doctor/detective stood staring at the black screen for a few seconds. Then he left his phone on the table and went into the bathroom.

He stared at himself in the mirror on the cabinet above the sink, hating himself. No, he despised himself. Mycroft was right. If he had stayed with Sherlock, nothing would have happened to him, because he always had his back. Instead, he had abandoned him. The person with whom he had shared everything. Even Mary would have been ashamed of him. He ran his hands over his face and through the hair. Then he turned on the shower and took a long, cold one. At least his brain would remain awake.

In the meantime he thought, again and again, about everything that had happened.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my beta Jhnlck for the correction of this chapter!


End file.
